Beyond the Walls
by The Cynic
Summary: Not everyone loves the Abbey -- Will was an Abbey orphan who felt trapped and stifled within the confines of the walls. When he had the chance, he took it, and escaped... But he didn't know what he was getting himself into. R&R, please. :P
1. Part One, Leaving Town: Chapter One

'cause I remember how we drank time together  
and how you used to say that the stars are forever  
and day dreamed about how to make your life better  
by leaving town, leaving town....  
--Dexter Freebish, Leaving Town  
  
Mossflower is beautiful in the autumn.  
  
Start at the shores, where the inexorable waves lick hungrily at the sands of Salamandastron, and travel inward. Here are the woods, crisp and flame-orange now. In them the tiny lives of the inhabitants stretch across the provincial life-tapestry. A warm and rich land, where the gods they worship are benign and nurturing - they have no need for the strong and cunning and ruthless, in their land of dreams, nor have they need of exploration, of stretching their horizons towards the moon.  
  
Here is the jewel-crimson stone of Redwall Abbey, where there is a starched brown vellum map spread across the Recorder's table, long forgotten. They have no need of it, not in their ostrich in the sand way of life - the map is crude, exaggerated, with Redwall shown larger than it should, the focal point of the world to these creatures of humility. It goes east a bit, showing touches of the wild scrubland, and it goes south, a bit, detailing Southsward, but it stops abruptly at the edge of the paper.  
  
Do they not know what exists beyond the line?  
  
Or do they not care?  
  
Who are we to say, gentle reader? All there is to say is this: Mossflower is beautiful in the autumn. A breathtaking beauty that stifles the mind in the narrow lives of the woodland.  
  
What more need they, who have heaven in their grasp?  
  
---  
  
His parents were not killed by vermin. He harbored no grudges, no secret animosities. His childhood was fairly happy, considering that he was an orphan, but it held nothing of spectacular interest. He spent his time in Redwall Abbey, and was a kitchen apprentice, and an incurable dreamer.  
  
His name was Will, and he did not belong in the Abbey.  
  
---  
  
"William!"  
  
There was no answer from the boy in query, and the voice, loud and resonant, tried again. "William Fieldmouse!"  
  
No response.  
  
"WILLIAM!"  
  
"Yes, Mother Verbena."  
  
"William, you're supposed to be helping in the kitchens - where are you?"  
  
A rumpled head poked itself over the edge of the roof, watching the ponderous form of the badger-mother lumber beneath the gutter. She still hadn't seen him, and he grinned suddenly, sitting up and scooping a handful of dirt from the shingles of the roof. As Mother Verbena moved right beneath him, he showered her with dust, spotting her immaculately clean fur with brown. She grunted in her gruff voice and looked up, deep eyes distinctly annoyed. "So!" she exclaimed, "I should have known you'd be up there.... Down, right now, and you're going to regret it, you little rascal!"  
  
"My foot slipped," he said contritely, "I didn't mean to get you dirty."  
  
"We'll see about that," Verbena said grimly. She was used to dealing with Will; a constant battle of wits. "You come down here right now."  
  
Will slide sideways until his paws grasped the drainpipe in the corner. Hoisting himself off of the roof, he slid down the metal and landed easily on the ground, wincing and blowing lightly on his hands, which burned from the speed of the descent.  
  
He was marched forcibly off to the kitchens, Verbena lecturing with every step. "When will you stop day-dreaming and do your part? Disgraceful...."  
  
With a despondent sigh, he trudged towards the kitchens, where the wrath of Friar Price awaited him.  
  
---  
  
Will examined his hands afterwards, slick and still wet from the dishwater. Because he had been late for duty, the Friar had ordered him to stay in the kitchens during supper, allowing him to catch a bite to eat during the brief respites between courses. If there was one thing he hated, though, it was washing the dishes afterward. There always seemed to be piles and piles of them, and it was almost as if they multiplied while he wasn't looking.  
  
Pots, dishes, pots.  
  
Exhausted, Will attempted to catch the attention of one of the higher-ranked kitchen beasts, to show that he was finished with his work. "Miz Sora! Over here," he yelled over the clatter of plates and the chatter of the other creatures.  
  
"Finished, then?" she asked. Sora was only three years older than Will, a very matronly eighteen, but from the way she acted, the mouse gave the impression of a middle-aged woman.  
  
"Yes, Miz Sora," Will said respectfully. Out of the kitchen staff, Sora was one of the friendlier ones, but if you were too disrespectful you'd find a wooden spoon connecting painfully with your rump. He'd experienced it first-hand and it wasn't pleasant at all.  
  
She pushed the crystal glasses to the bridge of her nose, though they hadn't slipped, and peered closely at the mountain of clean dishes. "Hmmm," she said thoughtfully, while Will fidgeted uncomfortably, wanting to go back to the dormitories.  
  
"Yes?" he asked, silently prodding her to hurry up.  
  
Her head went up as she stared levelly, a very steady gaze that made him squirm even more. "Very good," Sora said, with all the pompous authority of a junior army officer, "You may go now." As he beat a hasty retreat, she called after him, "And don't be late tomorrow, or I'll give you twice as much work!"  
  
"Tyrant!" he said over his shoulder, and was gone before she could set a spoon to his bottom.  
  
He was really too old for that, Will thought; someone should tell Sora to save the admonishing for Dibbuns and the younger children - the problem was, in Sora's eyes, everyone was a child, especially a half-grown, irresponsible mouse-boy.  
  
---  
  
He had no friends, really. Will was the only boy his age that lived in the Abbey; the others were either too old or too young. There was a squirrel named Dan in Mossflower whom he talked to while he traveled in the forest, sometimes; and some of the older Abbeybeasts condescended to speak with the too skinny William on occasions.... Not a true friend in the lot.  
  
The only thing he really looked forward to was practice with the Abbey Champion.  
  
When Will was still a Dibbun - barely four years old - he would watch Caolán as he rehearsed the careful movements of the Shadow Dance, the intricate steps of fighting an invisible opponent. I want to look like that, the boy had thought to himself; I want the snake-oil-grace, like his. The warrior was tall, well muscled and fit looking. Although he was gradually getting older, his body had lost nothing of its skills in the intermittent years since his arrival at Redwall.  
  
Caolán, kind hearted and always willing to teach an eager student, began teaching the child the rudiments of the fighting arts, starting with simple calisthenics and fists, working up to bows and quarter staves, and finally beginning with the sword. Eleven years Will had been going to the Warrior in the early mornings, when most of the Abbey was abed and unaware. Verbena had never been happy about the arrangement, and often sought to deter Will from the course of violence.  
  
No use, there, nothing could keep him away from the grassy clearing in the orchards where Caolán and the weapons were.  
  
Today, Caolán was ready and waiting for him, as usual, in a loose-necked shirt, baggy trousers, and bare paws. He held two practice swords in his hands, bundles fashioned ingeniously from reeds and tied tightly with bowstrings. They had wooden crosspieces and hilts, and stung sharply when they connected with bare skin. Caolán threw one to Will as he padded into the clearing. "I'll not make you use the forms today, lad," the warrior said lightly, a devil's grin slipping onto his face.  
  
Will gulped nervously. Forms were a set pattern of moves, choreographed fighting, for the sole purpose of learning how to handle the sword and to move with it. He'd never fought without them, and he thought it was more than a bit unfair of Caolán to spring such a surprise on him without warning. "Um," he said, "All right, then." He caught the "sword," settled into the guard position, and waited for Caolán's attack.  
  
Caolán raised an eyebrow. "Well?" he asked, "Your move, Will."  
  
Tentatively, Will extended the sword, only to have the Champion bat it lightly aside and shake his head. "Not like that, lad, you're trying to hurt me, remember?" he asked, humor touching the words.  
  
"Right," Will said, and feinted at the warrior's head before disengaging the sword to the side and chopping at Caolán's belly. Unfortunately, the older mouse was too fast, and blocked both attacks, causing a loud "clack-clack" sound.  
  
"Better," Caolán said approvingly, and attacked suddenly in a flurry of blows. Will retreated backwards steadily, parrying blows as he went. The sudden storm of cuts towards his body left him unable to do anything but go on defense; it was difficult enough avoiding being smacked on some exposed part.  
  
This went on for a while; with Will barley defending and Caolán giving no mercy. The sweat was beginning to drip down Will's forehead and into his eyes, stinging. Glancing slightly to the side, Will noticed with a groan of dismay that he was backing up into a tree. An idea came and suddenly he smiled: raising the sword up in a high parry to keep Caolán from whacking his head, Will's foot went out in a kick that caught the Champion in the stomach and knocked him off balance.  
  
It was cheating, Will knew, and stood there grinning sheepishly while Caolán wheezed on the ground. Abruptly, to Will's shock, the warrior began to laugh as soon as he regained his breath, guffawing loudly. "Good job, lad! Wasn't expecting that one, was I, and look where I'm sitting now," he managed to gasp out between laughs.  
  
"Sorry," Will said, and extended a hand to help the fallen warrior up. Caolán, standing, used the hand for leverage and, just as suddenly as Will had kicked him, he flipped the younger mouse over. Will, landing heavily on his back, had the breath knocked out of his lungs. He stared up at the sky for a moment, blinking. "Ouch," he managed, and sat up. "Are we done now?"  
  
"Yes," Caolán said, and gestured for Will to follow after him. They walked through the orchard in silence.  
  
"Sir?" Will asked as they passed under the apple trees near the pond.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Did you always live here in the Abbey?"  
  
"Not always, Will.... I was a mercenary for most of my life."  
  
"Why did you decide to come here?" Will asked, unable to keep a touch of bitterness from his voice.  
  
"They needed me," Caolán replied simply.  
  
More silence, until Will, who had another question, spoke again. "Sir?"  
  
"Yes, Will?"  
  
"Do you ever miss it?"  
  
"The fighting?"  
  
"No.... The freedom."  
  
Will was not surprised to find that Caolán was unable to answer.  
  
---  
  
Abbot Edward was growing older, and it was easy to tell as much from his movements. He was slow, arthritic, with a certain dignity to his stiffness that gave him an ageless air. He wore no ornaments other than his spectacles, which reflected the firelight as he painstakingly lit each of the torches in the study, snugly fit in their wall sconces. This room was his inner sanctum, where the books, scrolls, and religious works that he turned to for guidance filled wall-to-wall bookshelves; where the rest of the furniture could be termed Spartan at best.  
  
A knock sounded at the door, a sharp rapping. That could only be one creature, Caolán. The Abbey Champion had his own distinctive sound. "Come in, please," Edward called, sitting down with a crack of bones and tendons.  
  
"Evening, Edward," said Caolán, sprawling comfortably in one of the spare chairs that sat before the Abbot's desk.  
  
"Good evening, my son," said Edward, brown eyes twinkling behind the spectacles.  
  
"'Son?'" Caolán asked, amused.  
  
"I always thought it important to observe formality," the Abbot replied gravely.  
  
"Of course you did," Caolán replied. The relationship between Warrior and Abbot was an easy, friendly one: they understood each other very well. Each man was past his prime, but refused to let that fact slow down any of their actions; each man was passionately devoted to their jobs.  
  
Edward could tell that all was not well, despite Caolán's usual open smile. "Something is troubling you?" he asked.  
  
"It's Will," the warrior said, "He's unhappy here."  
  
"Why?" the Abbot asked, genuinely puzzled, "We've everything here."  
  
"You've never felt the wanderlust," Caolán said, with just a hint of patronization, more of pity, "You never needed to move beyond the walls.  
  
Edward was bewildered. "I don't see why anyone would need to - the Abbey is paradise on earth."  
  
"Sometimes," Caolán said, eyes fixed on the flames of one of the wall torches. Edward found that it was quite impossible to figure out what he was thinking about, what he was remembering. "Sometimes, that just isn't enough."  
  
---  
  
"You missed a spot," Sora said severely as she supervised Will's latest penitence.  
  
"Sorry, Miz Sora," he muttered, and put some backbone into the scrubbing.  
  
"Was it really necessary to put honey on the privy seat, Will?" Sora asked him, raising both eyebrows at once. Her eyes, however, magnified behind the thick crystal glasses, were amused.  
  
"I didn't mean for the Abbot to sit there," Will insisted, "I just wanted to get back at Friar Price for making me stay in longer than I had to, when I could have gone in for the fishing contest-"  
  
"Oh, -really- now?" a thin voice said, behind them.  
  
Will jumped, letting the dishes clatter into each other. "Father Price!" he squeaked.  
  
"So," Friar Price said, sounding very pleased, "Admitted from his own mouth! And the Abbot wouldn't listen to me when I said you had a grudge."  
  
"Did I say Friar Price?" Will asked, "I meant, I meant, 'other mice.'"  
  
"Nice try, young man," Friar Price said, "But you're going up before Mother Verbena for this one."  
  
Sora only gave him a look that conveyed quite clearly the words, "I told you so."  
  
---  
  
"Will," Mother Verbena asked, "You cannot keep doing this. You're growing up, you're going to be a part of our Abbey. You have to become more responsible."  
  
"I can't help it." He looked at the floor. Mother Verbena made him feel very young and very small, sometimes. Right now, all joking aside, he wanted to sink into the floor. The badger's eyes focused on him, large and dark, seriousness and disappointment evident in them. The majority of the young Abbey residents were orphans, Will no exception, and she looked on them all as her children. When one was recalcitrant or unhappy, there was an echoing feeling in the badger.  
  
"You can. You just don't want to," she corrected. "Will, you won't be able to stay in the Abbey unless you begin taking things more seriously."  
  
"Yes, Mother Verbena."  
  
"We can't keep warning you..."  
  
"I -know-. Can I go now?"  
  
She sighed, and rubbed her temples as if in pain. "Yes, Will. Goodnight."  
  
"Goodnight, Mum," he said, and ran from the room.  
  
"Sometimes I get the feeling that he's not listening to me, no matter what I say," she told the empty chair, and sighed.  
  
---  
  
It was another beautiful Mossflower night.  
  
Will, having spent exactly fifteen years absorbing beautiful Mossflower nights, was beginning to grow slightly sick of them. He rolled over onto his back and thought about what Caolán had said. At least the warrior had lived some of his life outside of the confining walls. It looked as though Will would never have that. Unless....  
  
He'd been thinking about it for a long time now, but it finally struck home that if he didn't follow through now, he'd never work up the courage to do it. "It." Leaving Redwall, his home. As Will slipped from his bed, he remembered a sampler that Sora had stitched so assiduously, one that said, in pink floss, "Home Is Where The Heart Is." His heart was not here - it never had been.  
  
The other boys in the dormitory were completely unconscious; he knew they were all sound sleepers. No fear of waking them. He changed - no use running away in a nightshirt. Light long sleeved shirt, leather jerkin, breeches, boots. A belt, complete with pouch. Hurrah, he thought, I am being resourceful.  
  
Will half expected the door to squeak as he left, but it swung open as it always did, leaving the way clear for him to leave. Paw prints on stone, paw prints alone. There were some simple things to take, and then he would be off.  
  
First in the seamstress' room, where he found a newly repaired back satchel. This he filled with a heavier shirt, cloak and breeches, and moved on. Canteen with water, two loaves of bread - some cheese. Simple fair, which would stay edible in the heat. Quill, ink, and vellum, for later. Kitchen knife, long and sharp - Friar Price would miss that one, but it went into the belt without a blink of an eye.  
  
Out to the shed where Caolán took care of the extra weapons - nothing fancy, there. Will selected a quarterstaff, settled the bag over thin shoulders, and headed for the gates. No one had challenged him. He doubted anyone had even woken up. Pausing by the gate, he scribbled a hasty note and pinned it to the door with the quill-trimming knife. The small wicker South Gate slipped open easily enough, and he shut it tightly - no one was going to sneak in, not until one of the Abbey beasts noticed. He walked off into the night, and did not look back.  
  
For once in his life, the future looked exciting.  
  
---  
  
Caolán yawned widely and rolled over in his bed, greeted by an obnoxiously cheerful bird trilling an early-morning melody. "Tralala," it whistled, but desisted once Caolán had thrown a shoe at it. The bird flew away in a self-righteous flutter of feathers, winging away to find a window more hospitable towards its cause.  
  
"Damn birds," Caolán said, lacking venom. He dressed in a leisurely manner; by the position of the sun, young Will wouldn't be in the orchards yet. The warrior smoothed down his fur, which had a distressing tendency to stick at odd angles. A chilly breeze blew through the window, settling cool fingers on his neck and undoing any work he'd just finished on his appearance.  
  
He ambled down the stairs and out to the orchards, expecting to find the boy waiting there for him - Will was an eager student. There was no one. Caolán, unperturbed, went next to the weapons shed to pick up the reed swords, and was disconcerted to find that the door was unlocked, flapping open and shut in the breeze. A sense of unease penetrated his still-sleepy brain, and the mouse called out, "Will? Lad, you've had your joke now. Come out from your hiding."  
  
Walking slowly, he padded through the orchards - ears out for any sort of movement, but there was only the play of wind on tree. A soft swinging caught his attention, and he moved forward to the Southeast Gate. It was open, with a note pinned neatly to the door. Caolán scanned it silently for a moment, and spoke two words that expressed his feelings admirably: "Oh, fuck."  
  
---  
  
"'Sorry. -Will," Edward read aloud. Caolán stood before him, expressionless. "Talkative," Edward mused.  
  
"No."  
  
"We've not lost a young one for years," Edward said, looking troubled, "He won't be coming back, will he?"  
  
"No," Caolán said again.  
  
"I'll organize a search party-"  
  
"No," Caolán repeated.  
  
"No?" Edward asked, sounding defeated.  
  
"He'll do all right for himself," the Champion said, tracing a pattern on the wood grain of the Abbot's desk, "And it's important for Will - extremely important - that he find his own way. I don't think it would be.... Healthy to bring him back."  
  
"He doesn't know what the outside world is like!" Edward exclaimed, "He's just a child, he could be hurt-"  
  
"Edward," Caolán said.  
  
"What?" the Abbot broke off his agitated tirade.  
  
"Didn't you ever want to leave? To see the stars when they weren't bordered by the walls?"  
  
"....Once."  
  
"But you never acted on it, did you?"  
  
"I couldn't. This is my home."  
  
"Will wants to see the stars, Edward. Can you let him?"  
  
Edward was silent for a long moment, before smoothing out the note so that it lay flat on the desk. "Pray for him, Caolán - promise me that."  
  
"Done."  
  
It was days like these, reflected Edward that weighed deeply on his shoulders.  
  
---  
  
Will, groggily, shook his head and sat up. He was soaking wet: dew beaded his face and clothing. Standing quickly, the mouse brushed at his limbs until the water droplets mixed into his fur, slicking everything flat and making himself look smaller. Grumbling under his breath, Will shook his entire body until the fur fluffed out again. Amused by his sudden worry for cosmetics, Will shrugged, picked up the bag and staff, and stepped onto the road.  
  
It was overcast and cloudy, not all the sort of morning he'd been hoping for on his first day away from the Abbey. The trees hanging over into the road flickered strange patterns of light and shade onto the dirt in front of him as he walked. At first Will enjoyed his journey, but then the walking began to be monotonous and the silence oppressive.  
  
To counteract the mindless quiet he hummed to himself, but that seemed too loud. Nervous, he glanced over his shoulder, looking back.  
  
The wall of the Abbey was still visible in the distance, though he'd been walking for over a day. He could still go back if he wanted to, they would accept him with open arms and smiling faces. Maybe everything would work out right, like it never had before he'd gone. Maybe he'd appreciate what he had left behind and then he'd settle into the process like before and become a mindless drone, he'd either become a monk or leave the Abbey and marry and have dull children...  
  
And Will smiled to himself, and turned, and continued down the road. 


	2. Part One, Leaving Town: Chapter Two

He'd been on the road for most of the day, hoping that the half-decent weather would hold out until he could find someplace warm to rest for the night. Unfortunately, things seemed to be going poorly for a start.  
  
It started to rain while he was walking, around sundown, and Will hunched his shoulders miserably and continued on his way, steps quickening as the raindrops ran down his head and into his eyes, soaking his fur and generally making him look like a drowned rat - mouse. Hoping that the food in the bag wouldn't be soaked, Will hurried to find shelter. In the distance was St. Ninian's, a small stone building tucked in the shade of the trees.  
  
He ran towards it, accidentally hitting himself in the shins with the quarterstaff. Cursing and hopping painfully as he went, Will hopped over the decrepit, rusting iron fence around the building and limped to the door. It was always open; the only people who went to Ninian's anymore were young Abbey creatures looking for some privacy.  
  
No one went there when it was raining, because the roof leaked and it was cold and generally unpleasant.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Will walked into the small foyer of the church, and propped the staff against the wall. Shaking himself thoroughly, he picked up the staff again, and went further into the church. His feet squished uncomfortably and made a loud echo in the silence and stillness of St. Ninian's. Through the entrance he walked, and into the tiny chapel, with its rows of pews knocked out of their neat line by disuse and age.  
  
He shrugged the pack off of his shoulders and leaned the quarterstaff against the armrest. Shivering, Will sat down on the hard wood seat, and curled up against it. He was not religious by nature but it still seemed vaguely disrespectful to drip water all over the already warped seats. Sighing, he was about to settle down and wait out the rain when there was a small cough from across the room.  
  
Startled, and just a bit frightened, Will sat up. He waited for a second and then got up, taking off his shoes so that they didn't squish as he snuck over to the source of the noise. There was a lump of blanket and clothes curled up next to the font, and, hesitantly, Will tapped it on what he assumed to be a shoulder area. "Hello?"  
  
With a yelp of surprise, something surged upward and struck out wildly and randomly about it. One of the blows, a lucky one, hit Will in the face. Instinctively he moved in to toss the creature over, but with a smooth motion, the animal twisted, and Will found himself flying head over heels. He landed in a heap against the wall, breath knocked out of him, with a ferret's masked features peering closely into his face.  
  
"Don't kill me," he told the ferret.  
  
"Kill you?" an incredulous voice asked, as the hob extended a hand to help him up, "Why would I want to do that?"  
  
"Uh, well," Will replied, accepting the aid, "First you attacked me, and then you threw me against the wall... That's generally not a sign of friendly caring, eh?"  
  
"You startled me," the ferret said placidly, dusting off his paws, "It's understandable I'd be a little frightened."  
  
Will touched his ribs gently, making sure they weren't broken. "Remind me not to frighten you again."  
  
"Certainly," the ferret said. He cocked his head to the side, examining the sodden mouse standing there, and raised an eyebrow. "You're an Abbeybeast, by the look of you - what in the nine gates of Hell are you doing out here?"  
  
"I'm not an Abbeybeast any more," Will explained, "I ran away."  
  
The ferret stared at him for a second, then started to laugh, loud guffaws that sounded strange in the church's halls. It was as though all the sound was being leeched of its resonance and instead fell flatly upon the ears. The laughter was no different, and the hob seemed to realize it. He stopped abruptly and looked at Will, his face twitching in the effort not to giggle.  
  
"What?" Will asked, annoyed.  
  
"You - ran away?" the ferret asked, "Like I haven't heard that one before. They all turn back in the end."  
  
"Who are you, anyway?" Will demanded, examining the ferret more carefully. He looked young, Will realized, maybe three years older, eighteen or so. He was tall, and seemed to be made mostly out of elbows, knees, and other awkward joints.  
  
"Oliver Erskine at your service," the ferret said, tugging mockingly on his forelock. "And who might you be, my young runaway?"  
  
"I'm Will." They shook paws, and Oliver gestured towards his small nest.  
  
"I've found enough debris and branches in here to start a fire," he told Will, "It's rather chilly in here, don't you think?"  
  
"Yes. I'm freezing - it's not the cold, really, but I was soaked on the walk to the church."  
  
"A fire's just the ticket then," Oliver said cheerfully, and set about arranging the tinder and branches in a suitable manner. He soon had a small blaze flickering away, and it threw shifting shadows on the walls behind them, huge, grotesque silhouettes. The ferret made a cushion of his pack and blanket, and sat down comfortably enough upon it.  
  
"Excuse me for asking," Will said, "But I couldn't help noticing, your voice-"  
  
"Doesn't sound like a normal vermin's, does it?" Oliver finished.  
  
"Well, yes."  
  
The hob shrugged. "I don't know. I always thought that the accents most of us ferrets have sound so uneducated - it's really like putting yourself out in the open for prejudice, it is. Woodlanders're less likely to mistrust you if you sound like they do."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"So, first a bite to eat, and then stories, perhaps?"  
  
"Sounds like a plan," Will agreed, fishing around in his pack for some bread. "I'm sorry, I don't really have enough to share."  
  
"Perfectly fine; I'm self-sufficient."  
  
They ate their meager meal in silence. Will broke off tiny pieces of the bread, wanting to make it last. He didn't know when food would be available to him again, and he realized that he should have taken more to begin with. Sighing, Will concluded that he wasn't as smart as he'd thought at first.  
  
"So why did you leave?" Oliver asked, mouth full, "Seems like the Abbey's a great place. Food. Shelter. Disgusting nice staff."  
  
"It's boring. I... Don't have an interesting story to tell."  
  
"That's perfectly all right, I'm sure you'll find one eventually."  
  
"And what about you? What possible reason would a ferret have for being near Redwall?"  
  
Oliver shrugged and hunched his shoulders forward, warming his paws in front of the fire before replying. "I was run out of my Clan."  
  
"Er, why?"  
  
"For being insane," Oliver said placidly, and put another twig onto the fire.  
  
---  
  
Will stared at him, and pondered whether or not to edge away. "Insane?"  
  
"Oh, it's not a violent thing," the ferret reassured him. "I'm not quite sure how to explain it myself."  
  
"You could try..."  
  
"I could," he agreed, "But I don't think it would do a lot of good."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Don't worry," Oliver said cheerfully, "I'm not going to jump at your throat. But if I'm a bit odd, then, well, you'll know why, at least according to Clan Erskine."  
  
"Right. So, ah, where are you headed?"  
  
"I don't know. South, I suppose, until I have to go one way or the other."  
  
"Wouldn't recommend south west," Will mumbled around a mouthful of bread, "I don't think the Badger Lord would like that."  
  
"No, he doesn't seem a very friendly chap," Oliver mused, "But that's the curse of being a ferret, I suppose. Instant mistrust."  
  
"That's not true."  
  
"Generally."  
  
"Well, I didn't, did I?"  
  
"No... Come on, though, you have to admit that woodlanders are paranoid."  
  
"That's exaggerating a little, isn't it?"  
  
"No, not really. You're a mouse; you've never been outside of the Abbey walls. It's true, you don't know -how- many times someone's kicked me out of an Inn because I'm a ferret."  
  
"We're not all like that. I'm sure Caolán wouldn't've."  
  
Oliver shrugged. "No use arguing, anyway." He got up and walked over to the thin arrow-slit windows that formed neat rows along the walls of the church. "Moon's out and it's stopped raining. I don't know about you, but I've had a long day on the road and I'm tired." He went back to the fire and picked up the blanket, constructing a makeshift bed on the pew. "Good night."  
  
"Night." Will flipped the top-flap of the pack up, sending small droplets of water pattering onto the stone, and pulled out his own blanket, setting his cloak on another pew to dry during the night. Although he hadn't walked a great distance that day, he was soon fast asleep and none the worse for the hard plank supporting his weight.  
  
---  
  
He flailed his arms frantically as someone shook him awake, gripping his ear painfully between claws. "Wha-- huh?" he exclaimed, attempting to hop to his feet without doing damage to his ear.  
  
"William Abbeymouse! Exactly -what- are you doing?"  
  
Will's groggy eyes focused eventually on the squirrel matron holding on to his ear and chittering furiously at him. "Ah, er, Goody Merryweather, good morning..."  
  
He could see Oliver Erskine sitting on the top of a pew about ten feet away, watching and smirking. He made no effort to help his new acquaintance. "Friend of yours, Will?" he asked lazily, yawning and eyeing Goody Merryweather suspiciously.  
  
Goody Merryweather let go of Will's ear and glared at him. "What are you doing in St. Ninian's at this hour? What is this -vermin- doing here?" She did not seem to be afraid of Oliver, merely angry. "You're mixing with bad company, you are."  
  
"I'm..." Will thought fast. "I was picking dock leaves for Mother Verbena and I got caught in the rain. I didn't know -he- was here."  
  
Oliver smirked at the squirrel as she glared, bowing sarcastically to her. "Top o' th' mornin' ter yer," he said, in his thickest vermin accent. "Marm."  
  
"You, be quiet," she grunted, and turned on Will again. "I expect to see you back in the Abbey by the end of the day! Or I'll come after you and tan your hide!"  
  
"Yes, Goody Merryweather," Will said.  
  
The Goodwife sniffed and swept from the Church, back into the forest from which she had emerged. Will breathed a sigh of relief and set to packing up his supplies. If she grew suspicious, he had to be out of range by nightfall. Sparing that, he'd have to be well hidden... Sighing, Will cursed his bad luck. "Why the sudden accent?" he asked.  
  
"Eh," said Oliver, "She expected an uneducated lout. Who am I to deny her one?"  
  
"You are a strange creature," Will informed him.  
  
"It's been said. So you're leaving?"  
  
"Yes, I have to be down the road before she thinks to go and tell the Abbot."  
  
"Well... I hate to burst your self-confidence bubble, but don't you think that if they'd wanted to find you, they'd've started looking already? Maybe they're letting you go?"  
  
"No use taking chances."  
  
Oliver gathered up his things, as well. "Do you even know where you're going?"  
  
"I guess I'll just follow the path, eh? Logical."  
  
"I'm going the same way. It'd be more interesting if we went together. What d' you say?"  
  
"Uh... Sure."  
  
"Great," Oliver said, bouncing up and down on his heels, "I hate traveling alone. There's no one to yell at me to stop singing."  
  
---  
  
St. Ninian's church moldered slowly into dust under the leaves of Mossflower. It was a study in slow decay, as the timeworn stones crumbled over each other. There was a sense of eyes watching, staring in mute terror at the prospect of their own destruction. The surreal silence was a part of the church's identity as well, centuries upon centuries of somber church mice going about their business without a smile, only a sense of duty.  
  
Oliver and Will did not fit, both of them felt uncomfortable that morning, as they left the Church, and Will glanced over his shoulder once, sure that something was watching him.  
  
As they stepped onto the path a breath of wind stirred the trees, almost like a sigh.  
  
---  
  
Will fell into the motion of walking, one foot in front of the other. The easy movement carried him forward, neither fast nor slow, merely a relentless onward push. The road was wide and still muddy from the rain, although it began to dry out when the sun reappeared and beat down on the exposed path. Oliver was uncharacteristically silent and withdrawn; Will made no effort to talk to the ferret, it was a fairly comfortable quiet.  
  
There was a fetid stench in the air. Will frowned, sniffed, and glanced sideways. "Urgh. That stinks."  
  
"Aye," Oliver agreed, "But where's it coming from?"  
  
They paused, each glancing in an opposite direction. Will walked over to the side of the road and stepped onto the grass, shading his eyes with his paw. "I think - over there! There's something crumpled up by that rock."  
  
"Careful," Oliver said, "You don't know what it is."  
  
Will waved the knife cheerfully in the air. "I'm already a step ahead of you."  
  
The older creature snorted and moved forward. As they drew closer Will covered his mouth with his hand to keep from gagging. The smell was even more intense as they went towards the sad bundle of rags by the rock. Will swallowed to keep his lunch down, and grew even more uncomfortable when he noticed a buzzing noise.  
  
The source of the noise was evident - flies. A black cloud of them; crawling all over and into the rags. Oliver went up to the huddled form and, quite heedless of the insects, turned it over. Will almost lost his lunch again when he saw what it was, the body of a squirrel, the face caked with blood, pus, and dirt, and covered in swarming flies. One of its eyes was missing; instead, the gaping socket was filled with flies. He took an instinctive step back, somewhat appalled at the apparent calmness with which Oliver was handling the thing.  
  
"Hmm," the ferret commented, "Squirrel, maybe forty years old? Hasn't been dead long, though, or there'd be maggots instead." He noticed Will's stare, and blinked. "What?"  
  
"You - it..."  
  
"Oh," Oliver said, grinning sardonically. "I forgot about your sheltered upbringing." He stood up and nudged the squirrel with his foot. The flies, disturbed, swirled angrily around the body.  
  
"I've never seen anything like that before," Will muttered, aware that he was going to start babbling, "One of the Elders died once and I found her but she wasn't like that and there weren't any flies, it just looked like she was sleeping, nothing at all like that..." The smell was overpowering.  
  
"Here, come on," Oliver said, not unkindly, and gestured away from the squirrel. "Let's go. Nothing we can do to help that one."  
  
"How can you be so...?"  
  
"Cold?"  
  
"Yes. I suppose."  
  
"Nothing I haven't seen before," Oliver Erskine said, "Really. Look, Will, people die, and it's no use going to pieces over it."  
  
Will made a face as they walked away from the body. "That doesn't mean it isn't horrible when it happens." He glanced over his shoulder. "It just feels like we should do something. Bury him, or..."  
  
"Do you have a shovel?"  
  
"Well, no, but..."  
  
"Then how are you planning to bury it?"  
  
"I... Didn't think about that. But it still seems wrong to leave him there."  
  
They were back on the road now, heading south once more. "Once you've been on the road for a while, you'll understand it's no use worrying about what's gone and done. You'll figure out it's best to live for what's now, otherwise, what's the point in being here?"  
  
Caolán wasn't like that, thought Will. What he said was, "Still - whoever that squirrel was, it shouldn't have been there. The woods around Redwall are a peaceful place and there shouldn't be dead bodies lying around..."  
  
"Keep your eyes open, then," Oliver said, "Who knows, maybe there's a new big bad in town?"  
  
"Yes, I'm sure that's very likely."  
  
"Say what you like, it's obvious it didn't die of natural causes."  
  
"Yes..." Will replied. "Maybe it's a new horde trying to conquer Redwall."  
  
"That's another thing I don't understand," Oliver said, as they walked, "Why do warlords always try to conquer that place? Aren't they happy enough with their own castles? Why d' they need another one?"  
  
"Don't ask me, you're the ferret."  
  
"But I'm a -logical- ferret. Slight difference, there. For instance, I didn't jump at your throat yelling, 'Argh, matey, give me yer treasure!' Take note of that."  
  
Will laughed, especially at the amusing mental image. "Even if you -did- jump at someone screaming that, they'd probably just knock you over or sit on you, and then you'd be done."  
  
"Oh?" Oliver asked, raising an eyebrow, "I threw you against the wall, didn't I?"  
  
"Fluke. I wasn't prepared."  
  
"Hmmph."  
  
"Really."  
  
"You just, ah, tell yourself that."  
  
"Fine, you're not a skinny weakling."  
  
"Good to see you've admitted it."  
  
"So... where is this Clan Erskine located, anyway?"  
  
"Oh," Oliver said, "We're in the North." He grinned, "And we look on all you soft southerners as a bunch of pansies."  
  
"You should tell that to our Abbey Warrior, Caolán."  
  
"Hmm. The next time I've any desire to be killed merited on my wonderful, roguishly handsome looks, I'll find out."  
  
"Was it nice, there?"  
  
"Oh yes, I suppose. If you like mind-numbing boredom alternating with almost constant war."  
  
"War? With who?"  
  
"Other clans," Oliver shrugged, "There was always something to fight about... The MacAllisters were on our land; we were trespassing on the property of the Flannigans... Both of my uncles died in battle before their twentieth birthdays."  
  
"That sounds..."  
  
"Barbaric? Possibly. It's just another way of life."  
  
"Completely different from Redwall... Instead of battles, we've got feasts at the drop of a hat."  
  
"That sounds..."  
  
"Dull? Definitely."  
  
Oliver snorted a laugh, and raised his eyebrows. "You're not bad, kit. Stick with me, and you'll probably live out the year."  
  
"What, you don't think I can't take care of myself?"  
  
"You can't," Oliver said bluntly, "Or, at least, not right now. You're soft; you've lived all your life in that building with everything you needed provided for you."  
  
"I've been training with the Warrior," Will said, peeved at this insult to his competence.  
  
"That means shit," Oliver retorted, "Less than shit. It's worse, 'cos now you think you can take care of yourself, so you'll be over confident."  
  
"It's not overconfidence," he insisted.  
  
"Oh yes, it is. Just because you can use a sword a bit, you think you can find food in the forest? You think you know how to squirm your way out of a mob in a city? You think you know how to keep from losing a finger or two from frostbite in the winter?"  
  
"...Well, no, but..."  
  
"Look, I'm not saying you're completely helpless," Oliver said, "I'm just saying you're lucky that I'm magnanimous."  
  
"I thought you said you were insane."  
  
"Oh, I am, but that doesn't enter into it."  
  
"Whatever you want to think," Will said, throwing up his hands.  
  
"I'm serious. You saw how you were with that body. Are you going to vomit every time you see a dead thing?"  
  
"...I'll get used to it."  
  
The look the ferret shot at him was slightly pitying. "Give it time, eh?"  
  
"You're not even that much older than I am," Will protested.  
  
"I'm eighteen."  
  
"And I'm fifteen."  
  
Oliver sighed. "Years, that doesn't matter. I've been on the road since I was thirteen, and before that, well... I told you what Clan life was like. You, on the other hand, have you ever even broken a bone?"  
  
"...No."  
  
"This isn't an insult," Oliver said, with a shrug, "I just want you to realize where you stand. I'll teach you the basic survival skills, and you'll be fine."  
  
Will glanced at him suspiciously. "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"  
  
The ferret snorted again. "Nothing. Friendship, possibly. I'm helping you out of the goodness of my golden heart."  
  
Will raised an eyebrow, and shrugged. "Good enough for me."  
  
Neither ferret nor mouse was aware that, in the bush, eyes were watching their movement. 


	3. Part One, Leaving Town: Chapter Three

"I don't know what the ground's like up ahead," Oliver admitted, "Do you?"  
  
"Not a clue. I think this is the furthest away from the Abbey that anyone except Caolán's ever been."  
  
"Your people are remarkably insular."  
  
"It's part of the life. We're supposed to be seeking, you know, inner peace. And other bullshit."  
  
Oliver clucked his tongue in dismay at the prospect and glanced up at the sky. "I'm not surprised you ran away, then," he shrugged, still watching the clouds thoughtfully.  
  
"It's getting dark. Should we set up camp?" Will asked.  
  
The ferret nodded, and scanned the area. Surrounding the road on either side were expanses of flat grass. The trees began on the far edges, but immediately in their area was only low foliage with no cover or shelter. "Hmm. Head for the trees," Oliver suggested, and Will nodded agreement. They cut across the smooth expanse and off of the road, deeper into the forest.  
  
Will walked ahead, footsteps soft in the forest. It was comforting to the mouse that in this, at least, he was better than the ferret - Oliver was more used to cities or even small villages and Will could hear the pawsteps from quite a distance away. Eventually he came to a small clearing where two trees had fallen, perhaps knocked over by lightning or possibly just age. "Hey, Oliver!" he called, and sat down on one of the trunks to wait.  
  
Oliver appeared at the edge of the clearing. "You called?" he asked, affecting a pretentious accent.  
  
Will sighed, accustoming himself to his friend's eccentricities, "This looks like a good place."  
  
The two trees had fallen against each other, providing a space beneath. The ground around the felled giants was mossy, covered in forest debris, and at the edge, near Oliver's foot, was a large gray rock, about half as tall as the hob. The road could be seen in the distance, through the trees. "Perfect," he agreed, and dropped his pack onto the ground, flopping down after it.  
  
"Tired?"  
  
"Gods, yes," the ferret yawned, "Bloody exhausted."  
  
"It isn't really cold enough for a fire."  
  
"And I don't have anything worth heating to eat," Oliver said, "I'll look for a woodpigeon tomorrow, and then we can cook some -real- food."  
  
"Gross," Will said, making a face.  
  
"What, you don't like woodpigeon? It's great. Especially with garlic and maybe a slice of lemon..." Oliver's stomach made a gurgling noise and the ferret glared at him. "What are you trying to do, make me hungry?"   
  
"Certainly not. Meat? Disgusting..."  
  
"Hmm. To each his own, I suppose," the ferret shrugged in a philosophical manner, "For me, I'd take meat over mouse food any day. Good night." He arranged himself in the crook of a tree root, closed his eyes, and was, to all appearances, fast asleep.  
  
Will, amused by the speed at which the ferret drifted into the Land of Nod, searched around for a suitable place to settle, himself. In the end, he leaned against the tree's other side, quarterstaff propped up against the trunk, and closed his eyes - it wasn't a Redwall dormitory, but it was comfortable enough for his purposes. Shifting so that the tree didn't dig into his back, Will let himself sleep.  
  
---  
  
There was a soft snap in the bushes. Will opened his eyes and found that it was dark out, and the moon silvered the forest in tiny threads that showered through the upper canopies of the branches. It was possibly one o'clock, by any estimation. "Oliver," Will hissed.  
  
"What?" Oliver whispered sleepily.  
  
"There's someone in the bushes."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I'm going to go check it out."  
  
"Don't be stupid--" the ferret began, but Will was already up and walking towards the shadows of the trees. Oliver heard a yell, a thumping noise, and curses. He shot to his feet, unsheathing his sword as he went. As he rounded the tree someone jumped at him, dull line of steel coming down towards his head, to all cursory appearances a rusted cutlass. Cursing the mouse's recklessness, Oliver reacted quickly, reflexes sharp in spite of the fact that he'd just woken up.  
  
He skipped backward a step and avoided the first cut, bringing up his own sword in a feint to his opponent - a rat, also by the looks of it, though there wasn't time for much more than cursory examination - and threw himself into the fight with a glee that would be disconcerting to most. He had no battle cry; those were for the tosspots who liked either wasting breath or getting killed. He could hear muffled thumps and an occasional cry of pain from Will's direction.  
  
"How're you doing, kit?" he called.  
  
"Never - been - better," came the exasperated reply, "What d' you think, Erskine?"  
  
Will kept his eyes on the stoat currently attempting to chop off his head. The quarterstaff was a useful weapon; every time the stoat tried to close in on the mouse, Will whirled the staff and hit him squarely on the head. The stoat was growing frustrated, and sloppier - Will could tell that the creature was not a particularly talented warrior. Caolán would have cut him to pieces.  
  
Eventually the stoat began to gain ground, and managed to slash Will on the bicep, a shallow gash, before the mouse could move back. They traded ineffectual blows for a while, until the stoat began to grow exasperated, sloppier still. Will smiled, though he was cursing at his own carelessness.  
  
"Fuckin' kid!" the stoat growled, kicking Will in the stomach, "Just fuckin' die already, would yer?"  
  
"Sorry," Will apologized, as he regained breath and balance, "But I'm really too young, you know." He twisted the staff so that he held it lengthwise, the end towards the stoat's throat. As the man charged towards him Will punched forward with the staff, hitting the stoat squarely in the Adam's apple and throwing him backward onto the ground.  
  
Will hurried forward, but the stoat wasn't doing much except clutching at his throat. Surprised and somewhat worried, Will knelt next to his former enemy, although he didn't need to, really - in the next moment the stoat spasmed and went still, his eyes staring flatly at nothing. Surprised, Will jerked backwards and fell over.  
  
As he stood up again, embarrassed, he noticed that there were no sounds of continuing struggle. He checked his arm, which bled sluggishly and was beginning to hurt, and rolled up his shirtsleeve. He glanced over at Oliver and found that the ferret had the rat pinned against a tree, sword pressing none too gently into the creature's throat. "Uh, Oliver? I think I killed the other one by accident."  
  
"By accident?" Oliver said, sounding amused, though his eyes were cold as he held the blade against the rat's throat. "Hmm, since we can no longer interview your friend, how about you give us some information?"  
  
Leaning against the quarterstaff as he caught his breath, Will was able to examine the creature that Oliver had trapped. The rat was of average height, but thin, and he wore a gray lacquered chest plate. His eyes were different from any that Will had seen before, almond shaped and titled upward at a slight angle, almost completely black - the whites showed only when he rolled his eyes to the side, attempting to get a better view of what was happening. His hands were raised high over his head, and he was bleeding rather heavily from a wound in the stomach.  
  
"I have no information." His voice was lightly accented, a lilt that was not the brogue of the North, nor the cheery singsong of the Redwallers, or the more languid tones of the Southswarders.  
  
"Yes, you do," Oliver told him, "You will tell us who you are, why you attacked us, and where you come from."  
  
"No."  
  
"He's a helpful one," Will commented. His arm was starting to ache. He swiped at it ineffectually, clearing away some of the blood onto his paw.  
  
"He will be, in a moment," Oliver agreed, and then addressed the rat directly. "My friend here is a nice guy."  
  
The rat's eyes flickered involuntarily to the body of his compatriot, and then back to Oliver with a smirk. "Well, maybe not as nice as he -could- be," the ferret amended, "But a lot nicer than I am. I suggest you talk."  
  
"What's the point?" the rat asked, "I'm going to die any way."  
  
"It depends," said Oliver, "On how painless you want your last minutes to be. I have a wonderful imagination, and I love to share." He pressed the sword in deep enough to draw blood, not much, but several drops of crimson liquid beaded around the weapon's tip. The rat made a gurgling noise and attempted to shrink back against the tree.  
  
"All right," he said wearily. "I'll... I'll talk."  
  
"I'm glad you decided to see reason," Oliver said, "You may sit."  
  
"Why did you attack us?" Will asked.  
  
"We're... slavers," the rat said, his breath coming a bit shorter. Blood bubbled around his mouth as he coughed painfully. When he managed to speak again, his voice was halted, and sounded wet. There were no tears of pain in his eyes, though Will thought privately that the wound looked very painful indeed. The rat coughed again and managed to say, "We collect... workers..."  
  
Oliver said, "Who do you serve? How many others are there?"  
  
"I... serve... the Emperor... Long... live... the Emperor..." the rat gasped out.  
  
"-How many others are there?-" Oliver demanded, backhanding the rat in the face.  
  
The rat's head snapped backwards, but he smirked at Oliver, the cynical look of one who knew his fate and accepted it without a blinking eye, as the blood dripping down the corner of his mouth in a sanguine rivulet. "No... need to talk... now," he managed, and in a split second had changed from a living breathing individual to a still-warm pile of meat. The head tilted to the side and the mouth opened, slack. A small line of drool lingered on its cheek.  
  
"Fuck it," Oliver grumbled. "I didn't think he was going to do -that-..." His voice was chagrined, as though the rat had decided to die out of spite for them.  
  
"We should keep moving," Will said, "We don't know how many others there are or if the know we're here."  
  
Oliver nodded. "Aye. One moment's all I need." He wiped his bloody paws on the rat's breeches, and stood up, examining them critically. There were still small spots of blood, but there was nothing to be done about that. Satisfied, he glanced at the body of the stoat, still sprawled where Will had left it. "Huh. Not bad, kit," the ferret said approvingly. He gathered up his things, wiping the sword on the dead rat as well.  
  
Will followed after him, feeling slightly dazed now that the initial adrenaline rush had worn off. The cut on his arm began to throb in an interesting manner. The last time he'd bled heavily was when he'd fallen off the low roof outside of the kitchen, when he was seven years old.  
  
The fact that he had killed another living creature began to sink in... You will not guilt about this, he told himself, After all, that stoat was trying to kill you. The sight of the stoat falling backwards and twitching was there every time he closed his eyes. He had broken the man's neck, apparently. He told himself that it was not his fault, but everything still seemed... wrong.  
  
"Something wrong?" Oliver asked as they walked away from the clearing. He had regained his breath, and looked calm enough. By now the two bodies, hidden beneath the underbrush, were a good three hundred feet away.  
  
"No..."  
  
"Hmm. You weren't injured?"  
  
"It's just a scratch. He hardly had a chance..." As he walked, Will pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around his arm, to staunch the bleeding for the moment. He would take a better look later, when they returned to their camp.  
  
"Oh-ho, so that's the problem."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're guilllllty! Our little warrior's guilty."  
  
"Fine! Fine, I am guilty. Okay. I actually -have- a conscience, unlike some people here."  
  
"Heh. You're right," Oliver said, "I am completely without conscience for it's a useless thing that hurts more than it helps."  
  
"I wish we could all have your amoral look on life, I'm sure it would make the world a better place." The sarcasm dripped easily off of his tongue.  
  
"Still, Will - he was going to kill you. Why should you feel guilty about getting him first?"  
  
Will stepped carefully over a tree root. "I don't know why," he said after some thought on the matter, "It's wrong to take a life. That's what I've always been told. I can't just forget what they've been telling me all those years. What if he had a family? People who're waiting for him to come home?"  
  
"First thing, a dirty rat like him generally wouldn't have anyone besides a whore to look forward to, and then only with money. Second thing - what the hell are they teaching you at that Abbey? Are you not supposed to defend yourself? That's completely fucked."  
  
"They never said you weren't supposed to defend yourself... There's just supposed to be some alternate way. I don't know. I still feel guilty."  
  
"All right, if -you- want to feel that way," Oliver said doubtfully. "Shh. I think I hear something."  
  
There were indeed voices from the gloom, voices and noises. Will could see a bright dab of fire and shadowy shapes moving around it. Both creatures instinctively flattened themselves against the trees, out of sight. "Let's split up," Will whispered to Oliver, "I'll go around the other side, and we can see what they're doing."  
  
"All right. Scream if you need help," Oliver said sardonically.  
  
Will made a face as he stalked off, putting his foot down toe-first, moving quietly and deliberately. If these creatures were in any way connected with the stoat and rat he did not want them hearing a stray twig snap. That, thought Will, would be most unpleasant. He slipped underneath a low hanging branch and went closer, eyes squinting against the glare of the firelight.  
  
"The scouts have not returned, sir," said a hare, wearing the same gray lacquered armor that the other two had possessed. He was addressing a large beast that had his back to Will. The one facing away did not look like a woodlander, judging from the general silhouette.  
  
"They'll return," the one in charge, the sir, replied, confidently. His voice was light, high, with the same strange lilt with which the rat had spoken. "It's not like either one to fail in a mission. They were competent."  
  
Will held his breath and skirted around the trees, to examine the other noises - the ones that sounded like whimpering or sobs, interspersed with low, intense whispers. As he moved, the creature in charge snapped at an underling, "Make them understand," he said, "That it's in their best self interest to shut up."  
  
As the hare made his way across the campsite, Will crouched close to the ground, neatly evading notice. He could not see Oliver, who was on the opposite end, also watching carefully. "Them" turned out to be six woodlanders of varying species, all chained together with shining steel manacles. The chains were new and strong looking and devoid of rust.  
  
Shit, Will thought, they weren't lying when they said they were slavers... He could hear his breath loud in his ears, and his heartbeat seemed to have intensified in the intermittent time. There were ten guards, all in that same odd shiny gray armor, surprisingly intricate for what seemed to common enough soldiers. There was no way they could rescue the slaves with those odds, and Oliver Erskine didn't strike him as the type to risk his own neck for others at horrible chances.  
  
To his surprise and discomfort, Will found that he himself had little desire to rush in and attempt to rescue the slaves. With an injured arm, however slight, there was no way that he, a just-tested teenager, would be able to do anything.  
  
He was ashamed, but that was the crux of the matter.  
  
There was no way to save them.  
  
"Sir, they've quieted."  
  
"Good," the creature called sir said, turning away from the hare so that Will could see his face. An ugly face, pockmarked with scars and cuts, and a black tattoo stretching from the eye to the corner of his mouth, on the right side. It was a male weasel, large and well built. His voice, when he spoke, sounded like a little boy's. "And tomorrow, when they wake up, you will tell them what happened to the squirrel who attempted escape last night. Tell them I will take an eye."  
  
"Yes, sir. They've been whispering about it among themselves."  
  
"Well, then," the weasel said, smiling absently into the bushes, "This will quiet the rumors."  
  
The squirrel? An image in his mind, of a blanket of flies and a gaping eye socket. The squirrel by the side of the road. The callousness, almost cheerfulness of the words was infuriating.  
  
A tap on his shoulder made Will twitch and almost cry out in surprise, but instead, he turned his head very slowly to see the rather impish face of Oliver watching him, an eyebrow arched sarcastically. The ferret gestured towards the direction of their campsite, mouthing, "let's go, quietly," without a sound. Will nodded, and they slipped off into the darkness.  
  
Ducking and weaving through the trees, the two young creatures made their way back to their campsite. It was lucky, Will thought, that there had not been a fire. That would have alerted the rat and the stoat, and then they'd have to spend time putting it out to make sure that the woods didn't burn down... Back to the camp, to pick up their possessions. When they were a safe distance away from the slaver camp, both of them ran like hell, heedless of the snapping twigs underneath their feet. The one thought in Will's mind was to get as far away from the slavers as possible.  
  
It was difficult to run holding a quarterstaff, and he imagined that a broadsword over the shoulder wouldn't be the most comfortable situation to be in, either, but both of them managed well enough. In the distance he could hear the low burbling of running water. Will slowed down only when he began to get a stitch in his side. He began to lag behind, attempting to catch his breath. Oliver doubled back, glancing at him.  
  
"Sorry. I forgot you were bleeding... you'll be tired now, eh?" He wasn't even breathing hard.  
  
Will sighed. "Yes. I hear water... Want to wash off my arm..."  
  
Oliver nodded. "That's the ticket," the ferret said cheerfully, "Don't let a bit of blood get you down."  
  
Will rolled his eyes and ducked underneath a low hanging branch to go towards the water. It was a small stream, running over smooth-toned gray rocks and little twigs that had fallen into it. Sitting down at the bank, Will untied the handkerchief from his arm, and examined the wound more carefully. It had ripped his shirt; that would need to be sewn. The handkerchief itself was bloody and disgusting.  
  
He twisted his arm around so that he could see the damage. It was a very shallow cut, as the cloth had taken a bit of the impact, and he'd moved back in time. It had stopped bleeding, but dried blood caked his fur and it had a general look of grossness. Will was pleased to find that he wasn't squeamish when it came to his own injuries.  
  
Unsure of what to do, he dipped his paw into the water, and patted it lightly on the wound. Ouch. It stung, but he continued, attempting to clean off the dried blood without reopening the faint scab that had formed. No luck there, either - it began oozing again. Stupid, he thought, that was really stupid. You had to go and get your arm cut, didn't you? No, it'd be too much to ask to actually get through this uninjured.  
  
Will wished he'd paid more attention when Brother Peter when the healer had given his lectures on basic medical aid. They'd seemed very boring at the time, but now, when he could have used the knowledge, all of it scattered from his brain. Well, there was nothing else to do now except go back and go to sleep. It wasn't bleeding heavily. He'd be all right until they could find more cloth to use as a bandage. He picked up his things and went in search of Oliver.  
  
He approached the left side of their newest temporary camp. He could see the profile of the ferret's head; Oliver was sitting on the ground and staring at nothing. Will crept up and tapped him on the shoulder. To his surprise, the ferret whirled around and attempted to kick Will's legs out from under him. Will jumped over the extended leg as it swept out in attack.  
  
"Oh, sorry," Oliver said contritely, "...I didn't know it was you."  
  
"You know," Will grumbled, "If you keep attacking me every time I startle you, I'm going to have to do something drastic."  
  
"Sorry," Oliver said, sounding as though he meant it, "I suppose it's part of the insanity."  
  
"...Right."  
  
"More important business," Oliver said, settling down again, "Who were those creatures and what did they want?"  
  
"Obviously," Will said with bitter sharpness, "They wanted slaves."  
  
"Yes, but why here?"  
  
"I don't know. It's probably a coincidence... I hope they don't harm any of the Abbeybeasts..."  
  
"Them? They're safe in their walls."  
  
"It was close, though."  
  
"Yes. Good thing we got away," Oliver mused.  
  
Will sighed. "I've killed a man and left six to certain death in the space of a day. I feel wonderful."  
  
"Don't start that guilt trip again," Oliver said, "Or I'm going to hit you."  
  
Will rolled his eyes expressively, and shrugged. "Sure," he started to say, but it was cut off with a wide yawn. He was just beginning to realize how utterly exhausted he was.  
  
"You'll feel better after you get some sleep."  
  
"Yes, I suppose so... Good night, or good morning, whichever it is now."  
  
"'Night, kit."  
  
Although Will drifted off almost immediately, Oliver, lying on the ground with his head resting on the pack, did not close his eyes for the rest of the night. 


	4. Part One, Leaving Town: Chapter Four

Will's dreams that night are strange ones. In them he is very tiny, and everything towers over him. He walks through the Abbey kitchens, where the noises are strange and alien, magnified to the point of deafening. Sora, with her glasses hiding her eyes and giving her face a bug-look, sweeps her paw at him, and Will, with a squeak of fright, cowers on the floor, preparing to be squashed into a paste. She must be fifty feet tall and she's moving closer.  
  
"Don't hurt me."  
  
"Monster!" Her voice is not like it should be, too deep and too angry.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Monster."  
  
"No... I'm not... I'm just me, I'm just Will!"  
  
"Monsters should be killed. They should not be allowed to live." She picks him up by the ear, dangling him by the sensitive skin. It feels like his scalp is going to rip away from his skull. He squirms and fights but it only makes it worse.  
  
"Stop! That - that hurts." She drops him, and he falls and tries to scrabble away. No use.  
  
She sings a song that she used to sing to the Dibbuns in the Abbey when they were too frightened to sleep. It is a song Sora sang to him sometimes. Her voice is wrong. It sounds too deep and it echoes. Everything about her is wrong, and he is a tiny fly pinned to the ground and all the time she is moving closer. He knows he should run but it is impossible.  
  
She is holding a knife and she raises it and he can't move and she stabs towards him and he tries to run but his feet are frozen and she hurts him and hurts him and hurts him and his arm is on fire and-  
  
---  
  
"Will. Come on, you slob, wake up."  
  
"Wha?" he asked groggily, eyes still squeezed shut. He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming about, but the sweat on his back and face was cold, and slicked his fur down against his head. He didn't want to open his eyes, but someone slapped him lightly on the face. It wasn't really enough to merit a wince, but it was dragging him perilously towards awareness. "Piss off," he muttered.  
  
"I'm not joking with you, kit, if you don't open your eyes, so help me, I'll pull your arm off--"  
  
"I'm up, I'm up!" Will said, opening his eyes. He saw Oliver's face very close to his, looking worried. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," Erskine said, backing away and smoothing down his unruly headfur, "I was just - well, you looked like you were going to start screaming in a minute. 'Sides, you were thrashing all over the place and that can hardly be comfortable."  
  
"I was?"  
  
"Indeed. Oh, and by the way, good morning."  
  
"...Thanks..."  
  
"We're going to have to keep moving, maybe we can find someone who can take care of your arm," Oliver said, carefully fastening the catches on his pack.  
  
"It's fine. It doesn't hurt," Will lied.  
  
"Tut, tut," Oliver said, "I was -raised- with stoics. I know all the tricks. If we can get someone to heal it, we will."  
  
Will yawned. It was too much, so early in the morning. The sun was barely showing over the edge of the horizon, bathing the forest in a ghostly half-light, and the birds weren't even making noise. "What time is it?"  
  
"I'd say four."  
  
"In the -morning-?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Slave dri--" Will started to say, and then stopped. The memory of the actual slave drivers was sobering.  
  
"Exactly. Let's go."  
  
They walked through the forest with Will trying to ignore the growing uncomfortable burning in his arm, and also attempting to stave off sleep. For some reason, he was extremely tired and the walking only served to make him more narcoleptic. He found that he was nodding off where he stood and then snapping awake after bumping into a rock, or a tree, or Oliver. After the fifth time, the latter started to look at him with concern.  
  
"I told you, I'm fine," Will insisted.  
  
"Obviously," Oliver said blithely. "The fact that you're walking around like a child who sneaked into the ale casks, that's just, you know, a coincidence."  
  
"Yes," he replied.  
  
"Well, stay awake."  
  
"I'm trying. Maybe if you hadn't woken me up so goddamn early?"  
  
Oliver considered this, ears quirking from side to side. "You were dreaming, anyway. And it wasn't a nice dream from what I could see."  
  
"I don't remember anything," Will said truthfully.  
  
"You've had a busy couple of days, I suppose it's understandable..."  
  
"Heh! 'A busy couple of days,' he says."  
  
"Another gift of the Erskines is that of understatement."  
  
"I--"  
  
"Halt!" called an annoyed voice, "Who's trespassin', then?"  
  
"A pair of weary travelers," Oliver said, arching his eyebrows comically at Will.  
  
"Name?"  
  
"Oliver Erskine."  
  
"I'm Will Abbeymouse. Or Fieldmouse. Depending on which you like better?" Will said.  
  
"We don't 'ppreciate rudeness 'round these 'ere parts. State yer business." While he spoke Will looked around for anyone visible, but the voice was hidden in the trees - wait. He saw, up in the heights of the leafy green branches, a plump form secreted. Nudging Oliver surreptitiously in the side, Will jerked his chin forward to indicate the presence of their "friend."  
  
"The ferret told you," said Will, loudly, "We're traveling."  
  
"A mouse an' a ferret, t'gether an' not fightin'? Odd, 'seedinly odd."  
  
"I'm defanged," Oliver said flippantly.  
  
"We don't 'ppreciate smart alecks, neither," said the voice.  
  
"Oh, come off it," Will said, exasperated, "We can see you, why don't you show yourself?"  
  
Something dropped to the ground with a thump. It was clothed in a baggy smock and pants that consisted of heavy cloth spangled in different shades of green, obviously meant for hiding in the trees. On closer inspection, the creature was not a squirrel, as Will had expected, but a remarkably chubby hedgehog. "G'day," the odd creature said.  
  
"You have leaves stuck on your prickles," said Oliver.  
  
"I did that on purp'se, young ferret," the hedgehog replied.  
  
"Why?" Will asked.  
  
"To not be seen!" the hedgehog said, voice scaling upwards, "'S camouflage, 'tis!"  
  
"It doesn't work very well," Oliver said, kindly.  
  
"I know that, young ferret!" the hedgehog snapped, "There's a few kinks in the system obv'ously, but I c'n work 'em out soon 'nough."  
  
"I--" Will started, for the second time that morning, when he was interrupted again.  
  
"Chester!" a shrill voice called, "Chester, are you in the trees ag'in?"  
  
"No ma'am," the hedgehog, apparently named Chester, replied, instantly contrite.  
  
"You're wearin' those silly clothes ag'in, Chester," the second voice, female, replied. A small, whip-thin female hedgehog emerged from under the bushes, wearing a respectable calico apron and solid blue dress, "You know what I think about those silly clothes," she said warningly.  
  
"Aww, but Daisy-Mae," Chester attempted to begin, but she grabbed his ear and tugged his head downward. "If I hide I c'n shoot those pesky woodpigeons been eatin' our garden--"  
  
"I told you once an' I'll tell you ag'in, I don't approve of 'em! An' harassin' passerby to boot? Chester, I'm disappointed in you."  
  
"Sorry ma'am," Chester muttered. The little female hedgehog stood on tiptoes and boxed his ears. Will and Oliver watched, bemused, as the markedly larger Chester allowed miniscule Daisy-Mae to scold him like a little child.  
  
"Are they... married?" Will whispered uncertainly to the ferret.  
  
"Unfortunately, yes," Daisy-Mae said, "Although I don't know what motivates me to put up with this fool--"  
  
"Now, Daisy, you know that ain't fair..."  
  
"It's Daisy-Mae to you, and you can't even find anything by yourself--"  
  
During this whole tirade, Will sat down on the forest floor in the cool grass, resting his feet. He felt very tired, as though all the energy had drained out of him along with the blood. He let his head loll forward, watching a small insect creeping across his shoe.  
  
"Excuse me," Oliver broke in, arms folded across his chest. The ferret leaned casually against a tree. "If I may interrupt?"  
  
"What is it, dear?" Daisy-Mae inquired, her attitude changing completely.  
  
"Would either of you know someone who can stitch a wound? My friend here's been injured, and--"  
  
"Of course I can," the tiny female hedgehog said, and rounded again on her husband. "Now would you look at that, Chester, you're keepin' me arguin' an' here's a poor wee boy with a gash on his arm."  
  
"Me keepin' you arguin'?" Chester demanded, "You do perfectly fine on yer own."  
  
"Excuse me?" Oliver repeated again.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Daisy-Mae said, instantly contrite, "Come, our home's not far off, and I'll have you fixed up neat as a button."  
  
---  
  
The two hedgehogs led them to a modest cottage in a clearing of the woods, surrounded by a white picket fence and a vegetable garden. It was built of whitewashed logs, and had billowing yellow curtains in the windows to keep out the worst of the breeze. Inside it was a riot of different colors and patterns, all as bright as possible, clashing horribly. Will didn't know where to focus first, and the combined effect gave him a bit of a headache.  
  
It was quite cramped, only two rooms: kitchen and living area, and a smaller bedroom connected by a door with a rug covering the opening. Chester gestured for Oliver to sit at the main table with him.  
  
Daisy-Mae seated Will on a small wicker chair with a flower-patterned cushion. It was over-stuffed, and he felt as though he was about to slide off onto the ground at any second. After making sure that he was settled as comfortably as possible, the hedgehog bustled over to the small coal burning stove in the corner, heating up a pot of water to a boil. Will slid the backpack from his shoulders and let it drop onto the clean swept dirt floor, and leaned his quarterstaff against the wall.  
  
She dipped a sewing needle into it. Will remembered, vaguely, Brother Peter doing the same thing - to clean it, he'd said. Daisy-Mae squinted, and threaded a blue string carefully through the eye. She took a damp cloth in the other hand and stepped lightly across the floor to examine his arm. "Hmmmf... It's rather dirty."  
  
"Sorry, we didn't really have much time to stop and clean it."  
  
Oliver shot him a warning look over Daisy-Mae's shoulder, and Will shut his mouth. The ferret and Chester were sitting at the kitchen table, devouring slices of bread and cheese. Shaking her head and muttering "gluttony" under her breath, Daisy-Mae cleaned the dirt from his arm as carefully as possible. Will winced, squinting, knowing that his face must look quite comical indeed. Why couldn't he have been more stoic?  
  
It took quite a while before the hedgehog was satisfied with her handiwork, and then she took up the needle, looking him sternly in the eye. "Now, this will hurt a little, don't squirm." With a practiced hand, she pinched the edge of the gash together and poked the needle through the flesh.  
  
"Ah," Will said, "Aah. That's not good." It was very hard not to squirm, as she'd told him to. The needle moved in a looping down and up motion, meeting little resistance from the skin, though he cringed every time it pierced through the fur and downward. Finally, he just shut his eyes altogether.  
  
"Hold still!" Daisy-Mae demanded.  
  
"So," Oliver said, obviously trying to take Will's attention away from the sewing, "How long have you two lived here? It's rather far from any other dwellings."  
  
"Yes, well, we always liked solitude, din't we, Daisy?"  
  
"Hush, I'm tryin' to fix the boy's shoulder."  
  
"Out of curiosity, have there been any other visitors around here?"  
  
Chester thought a moment, then shook his head. "None that I seen. Why?"  
  
Oliver shrugged expansively. "I'm just curious. Sometimes it's nice to meet other travelers on a pilgrimage. Exchange tales, and suchlike."  
  
Will opened his eyes again as he realized that Daisy-Mae had finished. She snipped the thread neatly with a small pair of scissors, and tied a knot with fingers that were defter than they seemed at first glance. He craned his head, attempting to see the finished product. The careful, practiced stitches followed the slightly jagged line of the wound, but it was closed, and no new blood. "Thank you. Thank you very much," Will said, smiling.  
  
"It's no problem, dear, I'm always glad to help-- Chester! That's enough for you!" Daisy-Mae snapped, hurrying over and snatching the remaining bread from her husband's hands, "You're goin' to get fat at the rate you're eatin'!"  
  
Will rolled his eyes - to his and probably everyone else's point of view, Chester was quite plump already.   
  
Oliver stood up, and bowed to Daisy-Mae. "Thank you for the food, Marm."  
  
"We'd ask you boys to stay the night," Daisy-Mae said, "Only, we don't have the room."  
  
"That's fine," Will said, getting to his feet, "I feel much better." In truth, he still felt quite tired, but well enough to continue on their trek.   
  
---  
  
They said their goodbyes to Chester and his wife, who gave them some extra food for the trip, and set out on the path again. They walked in relative silence for an hour or two, enjoying the calm after a rather hectic couple of days. Will found that his feet were beginning to fall into an easy loping stride, a movement that conserved energy and carried him forward with a renewed force.  
  
There was a soft sound in the distance, and he paused, turning his head towards the noise. "D' you hear water, Oliver?"  
  
"...Now that you mention it, yes," Oliver agreed.  
  
"It must be the Inland Lake!" Will said, "I've read about it in the old chronicles, but I don't think anyone from the Abbey's ever been here before. Let's go off the path and take a look."  
  
"Sure... It's not like we're hurrying anywhere, right?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
They left the Southern Path and cut through the trees towards the gentle sound of lapping water. Oliver continued talking as they went. "Did you know, it's supposed to be bottomless?"  
  
"That's rather idiotic," Will snorted, "That's like that old northern myth that there's a cavern underneath the world."  
  
"Hm. I think that one's from even father north than -I- am. Probably a bit to the east, too."  
  
"Well, there's supposed to be a cavern underneath the world, where the trickster god's tied by intestines to a rock... And there's a snake above him, dripping poison into his eyes. And his wife holds a bowl, but when it fills up, she has to empty it and the poison drips in his eyes, and then when he squirms, the earth shakes - but what I meant to say was, there can't -be- a cavern under the world, because then what's under the cavern?"  
  
"I think that's the most I've heard you say this entire trip."  
  
"I like stories."  
  
"...I can tell," Oliver said, and squinted through the trees. "Hey! I think I can see a glint of water. We must be close."  
  
"...Wow," Will said, when they emerged from the woods on the lakeside. The water stretched almost as far as his eye could see. It wasn't an ocean, but there was a substantially sized island in the distance, and a haze hang over the vista, adding a mysterious air. "It's beautiful."  
  
"It's nice," said Oliver nonchalantly.  
  
"Do you have at least one romantic bone left in that mess of cynicism?"  
  
Oliver shrugged, and looked out at the water again. "Let me think... No."  
  
The shoreline was rather rocky, and a peninsula of larger stones extended into the water. Will put his things down on the grass and hopped out onto one of them, moving out towards the dark loch.  
  
"Careful, kit - if you slip, I'm not jumping in to pull you out."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Oliver shuddered. "I'm not fond of water."  
  
"But surely, you bath?"  
  
"Fine. Fine. I'm not fond of large amounts of water."  
  
"Really," Will said, grinning, "The fearless warrior, afraid of a bit--" here, he leaned over and splashed some water at Oliver, "Of water?"  
  
"Stop that, that's not funny," the ferret grumbled.  
  
"Well, I think it's lovely," said Will, looking out at the lake again. "The water's probably all cold, though... Oh well." He crawled back along the rocks, trying his best not to fall in - he'd accidentally dropped into the Abbey pond enough times to appreciate not repeating the experience. "Back to the road, or should we hang around here for a bit?"  
  
"We can skirt around the lake if you like. As long as I don't have to go in."  
  
"Actually... Can we stop and eat? I'm starving."  
  
Oliver rolled his eyes. "Why do I bother trying to agree with you?"  
  
Despite his grumbling, they were sitting down to eat when loud yells broke the quiet of the area. A group of small creatures, maybe five feet high, stampeded into the area, many of them carrying weapons, and two carrying a net weighted with rocks. "What the fuck?" Oliver exclaimed, jumping to his feet, and attempting to draw his sword. Unfortunately, he was too slow, because the net was already entangling his limbs, and he fell in a heap of twisted string and fur.  
  
One of the creatures - a shrew - clubbed him over the head, and he stopped moving.  
  
Will stood, shocked and somewhat surprised by the efficiency of the little animals. "What the hell did you do that for?" he demanded, as they didn't seem to be attacking him.  
  
"We just rescued you from an evil vermin," one of them replied placidly.  
  
"But he's not e--" Will tried to say, but the shrews formed a crew, grabbed hold of the ferret, and vanished into the trees, "--vil."  
  
The irony of the situation was striking. He was going to have to rescue his friend, a ferret, from shrews, who were generally considered to be decent, law abiding folk, if somewhat quarrelsome. He looked around the empty clearing, and sighed. "Fuck it. Looks like I'm going to have to play hero..." 


End file.
